


Travail Torment

by BBirdy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Blood, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Gore, M/M, Martin Blackwood Has a Crush on Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood Needs a Hug, Martin Blackwood-centric, Martin Whump, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Mpreg, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quote: Statement Begins (The Magnus Archives), graphic birth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BBirdy/pseuds/BBirdy
Summary: Eyebrow raised higher, she turned her attention to Martin. "What the hell is going- Martin?"Knees shaking, shoulder pressed into the doorframe Martin stood, hand under his belt, holding the new weight."Martin!" Alarmed, Melanie shot forward, getting him upright. "What's happened?"Leaning into her weight he tensed, breathing hard."Damnit, is it the baby?"All he could summon is a nod, tension slowly releasing.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 64
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter One

Hand pressed against his side he squeezed his eyes shut against the newest rolling cramp. It compressed his spine with a swelling that reminded him grimly of an ebbing tide. Underneath his skin, he could feel the sparking through each muscle. It traveled down each vein, leaving behind a trail of fire that seared away at his nerves. It was something like fire, with a force behind it even he couldn't find the proper words for. The movement had been the most unsettling thing at first, growing body finding purchase against the expanding skin, ripping stretch cast lighting scars over the skin, before turning blood red. It seemed content to rip him open, centimeter by centimeter, agonizingly slowly.  
  
Teeth grit still, even as the sharp agony of the newest cramp Martin Blackwood sunk against the library table, elbows keeping him up. Sweat beaded at his hairline, driving all color from his cheeks. With his fingers going in slow circles, palm dug into the wriggling creature sticking limbs between his ribs. 

"There we go," he breathed, sitting back up. The pain had become so regular now he could time it down to the moment, the closeness shaving seconds off every time. Now there were mere minutes before the next one took over. 

He knew he should get up, find someone, but the idea of accepting his growing reality sent a jet of fear down his spine freezing him to the spot. 

And he had a task to finish, he reminded himself impetuously. Clearing his throat of all strangled cries he'd held back, Martin flipped his page. 

"Martin?"

With a squeeze inside that had nothing to do with his recent activities Martin looked up, praying the dim lights of the archives would keep his color a secret. 

No such luck. 

Jon paused, glancing up from a small notebook. "You look terrible."

"It's always nice to receive genuine compliments from coworkers," Martin sniffed. 

"Right," Jon flushed darkly, pressing on. "Have you made any progress in our missing statement?"

"Not a lick," Martin flipped yet another page. "Statement of war hero after war hero. But no one who has ever come in contact with Adom Mira, or Bennet Winifred, or any of the other names you gave me. Half the statements I found are from world war II anyway," he gestured to a towering stack of yellowing pages.

Jon picked the one from the pile closest to him. " **𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝙻𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗.** Who on earth names their child Lard?" He released the paper like it had shocked him, digging his fingers into the corners of his eyes. "Beside the point. No point in reading."

Martin watched him for half a moment. "I asked the library staff for help."

"Which one?"

"All of them. They helped me gather this. There's not a listing for a second statement from anyone between the year the archive opened to current day. And even if you've gotten the spelling wrong-"

"I haven't."

"There isn't anything close to it. If Marie Bunker ever actually made a first statement the archive never had it."

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, repeating something he'd clearly been saying a lot. "But there _has_ to be another one. Clear as day at the top of the statement it says 'second statement of Marie Bunker.' She has reference to it in her second."

"If you say so."

"That's what it says," Jon pressed and when he spoke he rattled it off like a memory, not needing to glance at the paper. " **𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎 𝙱𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙹𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝙴𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚑 𝟷𝟿𝟽𝟶, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚢-** _"_

"Since when have you been able to read French?" Martin cut him off, hating the wince digging into Jon's frown lines. Still, he pressed on. "Melanie says parts are in german. How can you read it?"

"I told you," Jon mumbled through grit teeth "I don't understand it myself. It just _happens_."

Martin looked back down. "Right. Another thing that just happens. You've just accepted it. You'll accept everything except-"

"Martin."

Dropping his head Martin looked away, hating the heat already rising behind his lids. "I'm sorry. Just forget it. I don't want another row. I'm tired of fighting."

Only the lackluster energy, so foreign to the usually cheery face, could really have Jon drop it. 

"Are you all right?" he ventured after a long moment. 

"I will be," Martin knew he couldn't quite lie, not to him. But that really was the truth. And he'd found ways around the odd compulsion Jon had. 

He wouldn't admit to the spark of pleasure it gave him, denying the archivist the answers he sought. The guilt always won out though, seeing that puppy dog frown, the twisted brows Jon always had, never daring to press. 

Fighting hadn't just worn _him_ out. 

And yet.

"You're sure?"

"Jon."

He left it for the moment. "Right."

"Have _you_ managed to find anything?"

"Actually yes," Jon placed the small book on the desk. "In archive storage. I found a book."

"Leitner?"

"No," Jon pulled a seat for himself, almost absently. "An old war journal, or more accurately handpicked pages from many war journals. It seems to follow the great war almost narratively. It could've been a pet project of someone who saw the same as statement 1-" he cleared his throat at the newest glare. "Right yes, not important. But there seem to be a few references to this same woman. Most of the time they call her Nurse B. But there is a single space," he pointed. There, in tiny scrawling handwriting was a name that could have been her name. 

"You're sure that says Bunker?" Martin cut across him, leaning forward. "It looks more like 'Drunken'."

"I'm sure," Jon defended stiffly. 

"You never have any troubles with handwriting either," Martin rolled his eyes, mumbling under his breath. 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He backed off quickly. "Nothing. So that's our nurse. Are there any first-hand accounts?"

"I haven't had the chance to read it through thoroughly."

"You should make it a statement, or series of. It'd be a good supplemental. Keep all the spooky bits around the nurse."

Jon's smile was thin. "As tempting as the idea is I don't have the time to read every last story from a journal of text. Other matters to attend to."

"Right," Martin turned back to his book, quickly, his color draining. "Back at it then."

"Martin?"  
  
He said nothing, burying his nose further in the huge tome, with mounting dread. Fist pressed into his ribs underneath the table he found it was not the only thing mounting. "Best get on with it all."

Jon didn't move. "Martin? Are you sure you're all right?"

The only improvement of the last few months, Martin thought grimly. Jon's concern for him had skyrocketed. Touching in a way, though very poorly timed in that moment. 

"Should I- would you like a cup of tea?"

"Nothing to worry about," Martin spoke through thin lips, trying to keep in his truth. "It'll all turn out."

Jon seemed not to notice the effort. "Whä̴̳͔̹t'ş̵̩͈̮̞́̃̀̊̏̐͝ g̷̛̝͖̾̊̈́̓̋̽̈̒̈́ơ̵̼̲͕̳͕͔̹͎͂̔̔̽̊̿̈́̌̚ing̷̛̝͖̾̊̈́̓̋̽̈̒̈́ oņ̶̛̱̗̫̮̽̎̔̓̓͜͝?"

"Stop," Martin yelped, anger spiking. "You can't just pull the truth out of people."

"Martin-"

Hunched over his seat Martin suppressed a groan. 

"I won't force you," Jon's alarm only increased. "But if you're in pain-"

"I think, I think I'm in labor." Martin hissed.

Jon froze, tongue numb in his mouth. Mind blank he began to stutter. "We need to go."  
There was no hesitation. Snapping his book shut he grabbed Martin's arm, already pulling him away from the dim library. 

"Jon," Martin tried to shake him off, something in his ears buzzing.

"Now," Jon piled papers and books haphazardly on one another, tucking the wild stack underneath his arm. 

Martin only had the presence of mind to take a handful of his study material before he was being forced out of the room and down the set of stairs to the archives. 

"Jon," Martin stumbled after him, nearly tripping. "Jon, slow down! I can't-"

Releasing his arm Jon marched to his desk, flicking on lights as he went. He mumbled under his breath, dropping his books, sending the pile cascading into a waterfall of looseleaf papers. Crouched beside his drawers he began to pick through the mess with abandon. 

"What's all the noise?" Melanie peeked from behind the edge of a bookshelf. "Jon?"

He thoroughly ignored her, slamming open drawers, digging at the bottom corner. 

Eyebrow raised higher, she turned her attention to Martin. "What the hell is going- Martin?"

He hummed acknowledgment, knees shaking, shoulder pressed into the doorframe. Books still hooked under his arm, his free hand supported the growing weight at his belt. 

"Martin!" Alarmed, Melanie shot forward, holding underneath his armpits, getting him upright. "What's happened?"

Leaning into her weight he tensed, breathing hard. 

"Damnit, is it the baby?"

All he could summon is a nod, tension slowly releasing. 

"Jon. Can you get him a chair?"

"I'm all right," Martian let out the breath he'd been holding to. 

Frantically she tried to remember what little she'd read. "Um, timing," she recalled. "How long has this been going on? Have you been able to time the pains?"

Martin nodded, steadying himself. "Regularly I've had it an hour or so, irregularly since last night."

Jon slammed a drawer shut, causing them both to jump. "You what?" The tone used could be described as low and dangerous, his eyes narrowed furiously. 

Martin refused to look up. "I didn't know how bad it was getting," he lied weakly. "I-" he planted his hands on the desk. 

"Another one?" Melanie pushed Jon out of the way, taking Martin's arm. 

"No," he shook his head. "Just lost my footing."

Less than convinced Melanie released him. "What do we do? How do we help?"  
Martin dropped his head, gnawing at his bottom lip. 

"You've got a plan, right?" She rounded on Jon. 

"We do."

She didn't like how he said the words. 

"Look. I knew we weren't going to a hospital but weird is part of the routine. There _is_ a plan. Right?"

"He has one," Martin snarled. 

"Stop."

Martin rounded on Jon. "No. I won't stop. Not until you try to see things my way!"

"We've talked-"

"No we haven't." his voice broke.


	2. Chapter Two

"We don't talk," Martin's anger swelled. "Not about this. You can go on for ages about files and statements and books but the moment I try to talk to you about the baby-"

"Alleged baby."

"Stop it!" Martin dug his finger into Jon's chest. "Just stop. I know what I'm feeling. I try to talk and you ignore me and then you give me orders. I am not a soldier!"

"I never said-"

"You didn't have to say anything," Martin pushed himself back. "I've changed my mind. I won't let you."

"Martin."

Melanie glanced between them, at an utter loss. "Okay. Explanation, now."

Jon scowled, taking his seat. "The creature Martin carries is not- cannot be natural."

"Assumed that much already."

Martin opened his mouth to protest; stopped and hunched over, arms clenched around himself. 

"Sorry, Martin," she shrugged half-heartedly. "But this kind of thing just doesn't happen. I assumed it was some part of big bad at first but when you didn't turn into a bloodthirsty monster after month one I thought it was something of a torture."   
  
He gaped indignantly. 

Melanie could only shrug helplessly. 

"My thoughts exactly. Things out of the ordinary have never been good, not for us. We do not get happy little bundles of joy out of nowhere," Jon could only glance at Martin. "We get monsters and demons and whatever else you want to label them."

"And there's no chance one  _ good _ thing is capable of existing?" Martin interrupted under his breath. 

And in that moment Melanie saw, saw the rift between the two as if it were a stone wall. Jaw slack she recovered herself, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers she attempted to summarize what must have been a months long argument. 

"Jon, you're convinced this baby is something  _ not _ good-"

"To put it mildly."

"And Martin…"

His hand starfished over his middle, backing away from the judgment lurking in their eyes. "I've been carrying them for nine months, known about them for almost that long, no matter how long it took to admit it. I can't hate them. I can't think they're a… a monster when I can  _ feel _ them. I feel limbs, arms, legs, the usual amount. They're human Jon."

"They're not." He spoke stiffly, jaw set. 

"How would you know?" Martin picked up steam, spitting each word. The burn behind his lids was coloring his voice ever thicker. "They have to be human. Every dark thing we've ever come across has a feeling, that prickle on the back of your neck where you know something evil is watching you. I changed my mind," the words were harsher, breath picking up without his notice. "I won't let you rip me open to satisfy your curiosity!"

"Hold on!" Melanie stood between them once more, cheeks draining. "There will be no ripping."

"Quite," Jon tapped his fingers on his desk.

Martin couldn't raise an argument. Hands once more planted on the unsteady table his knees began to shake. "Cutting. Slicing. Whatever you chose to call it. I won't let you."

Jon raised a gentle protest while Melanie struggled to swallow back her nausea. " _ That's _ the plan? To let an untrained medical- no you're not even a student-  _ civilian  _ perform a cesarean section without any medical training, professionals present, or anything close to one would call an operating theatre."

"And our other options would be?" Jon asked, watching her with icy eyes. 

"I am… capable." Martin's strained whisper caught them both. 

"How?" Melanie asked, incredulity coloring her words. 

Blush creeping up his neck Martin stumbled for the proper words. "I seem to have developed a way, along with everything else necessary."

"How?" She repeated. 

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to."

"Right."

Melanie sat heavily on the edge of the desk, grim images of snakes coming unbidden to her mind. A mass of muscles with the only purpose of slowly pushing whatever the creature had decided to swallow. Though this would be a reverse, fighting his body to get something  _ out _ . She had never thought of labor as the slow rippling of muscles they must be. Whatever muscles Martin had not had when this process had begun, winding themselves around the organs that truly belonged there, muscles growing as unbidden as the child nestled underneath his ribs. 

Jon cleared his throat. "As… unexpected as this development is, you cannot imagine a child, human or no-" 

"It is."

"Human or no," Jon pressed stubbornly onward. "It would not be able to fit through your hips. You are still, technically, male."

"They've shifted, my hips I mean."

Jon found himself once more at a loss for words. 

And so it would seem Martin was, once again, telling the truth. Half hidden underneath the clothes that were not so much bulky anymore as an imitation of bulk, hiding which parts were fabric folds and the pull of his own expanding midsection. It was not only his stomach that had grown, expanded outward in a sight that might have been grotesque, but his hips as well. They'd widened, pushing his knees closer together, bowing outward.

The shift had been so gradual none but he had noticed. 

Squirming with the eyes on him Martin straightened the hem of his oversize sweater. No matter the weather outside Martin had stuck stubbornly to his new fashion choice. 

Melanie supposed it made some sort of sense. If one was not really looking for the swell of new life you could wave away the growth as something akin to normal. 

Recovering himself as best he could, Jon opened and shut his mouth several times. He could not seem to find the right words. "You believe you are capable of a natural delivery?" the words were spoken with such disbelief one would have called it condescending. 

"I know I can," Martin stood firm. 

"I assume then, you have a plan?"

"As much as a birth can have a plan," 

"Fine," Jon reluctantly relented, letting the word hang in the air like a struck gong. It almost seemed to echo in the empty room. "Fine. You can have the monster naturally, as much as a thing like this can be."

"Stop it," Melanie growled. 

He lifted a single eyebrow. 

"You, with your sanctimonious little decisions, like you have any right to tell him what he can and can't do. Sure, I'm not exactly sold on the how or the why this happened. But we'll adapt, we always do. But you're still stubbornly against this one?"

"Martin and I have had this conversation bef-"

"It doesn't sound like it," she was rounding on him now, picking up steam. Something in her demanded a fight, demanded she defend Martin. She physically stepped between them, as if her body could outdo the harm words had done. "It sounds like you made plans and his thoughts be damned! Why do you get any say at all?"

"Melanie," Martin took her wrist. "He  _ does _ get a say. Not because he's our boss, whatever that means now. But because, because he's the baby's other p- he's the father."

Jon dropped his head in his hand. 

For a moment Melanie felt a fierce pride until she realized Jon's shame, the emotion etched deep, wasn't because he regretted his actions, but because he'd been caught. This was a shame of a child with their hand caught in a candy jar.

"He what?" 

Martin's blush had begun to return, flushing his ears a soft pink. "Months ago. We..."

"I know how babies are made," she said flatly. 

"We did not have sex," Jon said plainly. "Unless I have been wildly misinformed falling asleep on the same bed does not constitute this," Jon had crossed his arms, some weak attempt at armor. "The union between two fully biologically correct men is physically impossible, even if we had actually slept together."

"You know it was more than that."

Jon's finger began to tap absently at his arm, still folded firmly. "Physically no. Emotionally… we were vulnerable and tired. You asked me to stay. I stayed. I fell asleep. Nothing happened."

"And you can't believe that it felt different?" Martin asked, desperation growing. "You have to know they're yours. Why do you refuse to believe that?"

"It is not mine," Jon pressed. "It's impossible."

"Stop calling them an it!" Martin's voice cracked as he yelled. "We deal with impossible things all the time."

"And nothing good has ever come of those impossibilities. Pain, fear, and death are all anyone has to show for brushing against the impossible."

Martin's shred of anger fled, leaving him looking drained, and indescribably sad. "I thought it could. But let's face it, Jon. Even if you'd believe they are yours you wouldn't care, not about me, not about them." His face fell, eyes squeezed against the tears fighting to get out.

It broke Melanie's anger-heated heart just to see. 

For a moment something dark flashed behind Jon's eyes, deeper and more primal than fears. Though she couldn't quite pinpoint the emotion. 

"I can't afford to."

Jon's words were clinical, cold, and calculated. 

But they also seemed to be perfectly designed to slice into Martin, more accurately and cold than any scalpel. He was lost to the next pain before the tears could properly form. 

Melanie would have called it a blessing, a distraction from the pain, had it not been replaced by something worse. 

Martin trembled, swallowing back a groan as he hugged his middle. 

Jon tried to move forward, tried to help keep him upright before Melanie swatted his hand away. "Don't touch him," she spat, disgust dripping from every syllable. 

No wonder Martin had gone so utterly quiet the last few months. The idea that the man for whom he was carrying a child didn't have the basic human decency to respect his decisions. 

Clinging to her arm Martin let himself sink into the pain, able to keep quiet, but only just. He took a moment longer than strictly necessary to recover, swallowing back the emotion that had welled so quickly behind his eyes. 

With yet another long deep breath he stood under his own power. "You will let me?"

"You may proceed with your birth plan however you choose, though we have no supplies one might call useful," Jon spoke with a robotic stiffness, once again staying decisive. "The only things I have are a strong topical numbing, a scalpel, and suture kit. I was able to find enough morphine to knock you unconscious for a while."

Melanie had a sudden sick feeling that was not  _ all _ morphine could be used for. Enough to knock a grown man to sleep was also enough to… send away, something small.   
  



	3. Chapter Three

"I don't want morphine," Martin said quickly. "It might hurt the baby."

"So an otherwise natural delivery then?"

Martin purposefully ignored the phrase  _ otherwise _ and nodded. 

"Fine," Jon repeated, starting to rub his temples, trying to push away a throbbing in his skull. "You understand this does not mean I agree that this child will be wholly human, or human in the slightest."

"It gives me more time to convince you," Martin actually managed a smile. 

Jon couldn't quite find an argument. It was just nice to see that he still could smile, despite the pain pulling down the corners of his eyes. 

"Good," Martin turned, going to remove the mass of his sweater, leaving Melanie standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. 

"Just like that then?"

Martin turned back, holding the thick wool before him, hair sticking up where fabric had pulled. "Like what?"

"We're just going to stick around until the kid decides to pop out?"

Once more he smiled, looking as if he were stifling a laugh. "Labor is a bit more of a hike than a stroll in the park. But to put it plainly, yes. These things progress on their own."

She paused, trying to wrap her head around everything that had just happened in the last few minutes. Could it have only been a few minutes? She felt like she'd been standing there for several confusing hours. "Right then."

Crouched down Melanie began to grab the papers that had been dropped on the trek down the stairs, deciding at the last moment to hitch up the closed sign on the archive door. Most people did not come down the long staircase into the dingy basement, but on the off chance, this was not something that should be walked casually in on. 

Not that she supposed anything in the archive should be casually walked in on. 

Turned around, still half in her musings she caught sight of Martin, organizing his things neatly on a spare table. "Holy hell," she spoke aloud, the words escaping without volition. 

"What?" Martin looked up. 

"You're huge."

His face shifted a deep pink. "To be expected of the, well, of the expecting."

"I know but," she stopped, at an utter lack of words. "'I guess I never thought much about it. Rain or shine you've just been wearing coats and sweaters and it never really looked much like a baby, just like you'd gotten a bit fat."

Martin rubbed the underside of his belly. 

She wasn't wrong. 

What had been well crafted and hidden rolls underneath knitted wool was now unmistakable. Martin had always been less on the thin side before. But this was something entirely different. The curve was too firm, too distinctive to be an acute adoration for sweets or baked goods. Something about it pushed out, didn't quite hang as fat would, or perhaps how his belly button had pushed outward, becoming a cherry-sized lump above his belt line. 

Some hitherto unknown motherly urge pushed Melanie to touch it, run a palm down the massive swell, under which, she was more sure now than ever, a tiny innocent child wriggled. 

Shaking her head Melanie turned away, hands firmly at her side. 

Martin tried to respond when another rolling cramp stole away his words. He hissed softly through his nose, one palm planted on the desk beside him. 

It was a little mesmerizing. 

Even during the peak of the pain, Martin forced his breathing to an even keel, swaying ever so slightly back and forth. 

Melanie had taken his arm from the desk before she knew exactly what she was doing, holding it tight, supporting his weight as he leaned against her. 

"Thank you," he mumbled softly, blinking glazed eyes back into focus. The words caught and he tried to clear them. 

"Get us a glass of water," Melanie ordered to the side of the room. 

Martin glanced over. "Jon?"

He hadn't moved, half sat on the edge of his desk, pressing small circles into his temples with alternating knuckles. 

"Jon," Melanie snapped. 

"What?"

"Water."

He took the pitcher and glass up without another moment's hesitation. 

Martin didn't thank him, didn't even take the glass, peering up into Jon's sunken face. "You're tired." He didn't ask. 

" _ I  _ am fine," Jon rubbed his forehead slowly. 

"You haven't read any statements today."

Jon blinked. "How did you-"

"You were looking for the time to read all those war journals," Martin tried for a weak smile. "I suppose now is as good a time as any."

Cottoning on as a way to distract the overbearing presence of Jon's gaze Melanie nodded emphatically. 

"I know you think I'm heartless but I can't just do nothing. If you're really doing this I can't just stand here."

"You're not doing nothing," Martin spoke on an even keel before Melanie had found a proper excuse. "If you're at full strength you'll be able to help, to  _ know _ what you need to. Besides," he pressed on, once again muting his companions with a watery smile. "You could call it their first bedtime story."

Jon visibly flinched, sending Martin's smile melting away like ice cubes in inferno. "Martin-"

"I like listening," Martin looked down, the hard edge returning to his words. 

The only sign of his mounting pain were the white knuckles of his hands at his sides, something Melanie only saw as she was looking for them. 

"What?"

He took a long unsteady breath. "I like listening. The statements don't just help you anymore. I've been reading them too, remember, while you were away? They used to stress me out but after, when I," he kneaded a hand into his stomach, self-conscious in a way he hadn't been before. "When I had morning sickness, or when my muscles felt sore reading helped me get out of my head for a bit. And I like hearing your voice."

Brushing past the tail end of his declaration Jon cleared his voice. "And you're sure that's all it was?"

"Yes," Martin said firmly. 

Melanie could see it was a lie, so clearly a lie in the way the word trembled on his tongue. She hadn't understood how Martin could lie to Jon. No one else could. But if the statements were starting to, to  _ help _ him too, perhaps there was a reason for Jon's muddled fears. 

"All right then," Jon straightened. 

"You'll do it?"

He nodded stiffly. "You know I tend to lose myself while reading. If anything,  _ anything  _ happens, you get my attention?"

Martin agreed, if only reluctantly. 

"And me?" Melanie asked. There was no way she could stand around either. 

Leveling a hesitant plea to her, Martin gnawed at his lip. "Help me walk?"

"Walk?"

The blush, now ever-present, crept ever higher up his cheeks. "Walk. I, I read that walking can help speed it up."

"Are you sure speed, is something you want?" Melanie asked, taking his arm in any case. 

He held tight to her, eyes pressing shut. "I don't want to have to endure this longer than necessary."

Melanie watched the flush drain away, pain transforming gentle features into a sharp grimace. "Right."

Across the small office, the familiar sound of a tape recorder flipping on echoed across archive walls. 

Jon cleared his throat, eyes determinedly on the paper in hand. " **𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏… 𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚆𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚛. 𝙹𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟼. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜**."

Martin set the pace as he began his slow walk back and forth, listening intently. 

Melanie let herself be used as a glorified crutch, trekking a semi-circle around the archives, Jon's desk not only in earshot but in line of sight at all times. 

Martin didn't cling to her as she thought he would. That isn't to say there weren't moments she felt he was cutting off her oxygen with his grip. But for the most part, he simply held to her arm, practically holding her hand. 

She could see the swell of each pain etched into his face, watched the lines of that young face dig deeper, the hand bracing his spine digging fingers into his shirt. 

"Hmmm," his voice caught, lips pressed. 

"Deep breaths," Melanie soothed, a hand across his, carefully prying his nails out of his own skin. Her mind wandered to the never-ending stream across the room, waiting for the panting to slow down. 

" _ - _ **𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝. 𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝. 𝙽𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝙱 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍. 𝚆𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚞𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌. 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚐𝚙𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍."**

Martin relaxed underneath her fingers, drawing her attention back. 

She had never quite imagined the process of labor before. She had of course seen dramatized versions in various television programs. They just didn't capture the scope of it, she realized, reaffirming her grip on his shoulder. 

Martin didn't scream, didn't cry out in the agony she knew he felt. He pressed his lips into a sharp line. In the moments when she met his gaze she found no recognition there. He was drowning in a world where the only thing that existed was pain. 

Head dropped back to his shoulders he let out a long low breath, controlled, the echo of a scream he held in. 

"Martin?"

He didn't answer, though whether it was ignorance of her speaking or genuine deafness was beyond her. Still, she spoke. "Martin. You're allowed to cry out. You're hurting."

"Can't," he shook his head. "I can't be weak. I wanted this."

He hitched forward.

Melanie pushed aside her anger. No, that wasn't right. She categorized that anger. No longer was she mad at the faceless nothing that had put her friend into such a fit. She glared over Martin's shoulder as he buried his face into her neck, trying to muffle his sobs.


	4. Chapter Four

"Jon," Melanie hissed, too low even for Martin to hear. 

_ He'd _ done this. 

Not only just fathering the child. His stubbornness was leaving Martin believing he had to be stoney, to go through the worst pain a human could feel, as if it were nothing. Could Jon really expect him to endure this? Would he really sweep in, opting to slice the child out with that stark silver scalpel that still sat next to the tape recorder? 

Melanie wanted to rage, to scream at Jon to get out, leave Martin to endure how he needed. 

But she couldn't.

Even as tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes Martin listened, took his Jon's words, and swayed to them like they were song. 

And in that moment she caught the almost second to second plot of the movements. 

Martin would walk, pause as the newest pain blossomed, leaning against her or a bookshelf as his knees threatened to give out. All color would leave him, sweat clinging his hair to his forehead. Then he would pause, holding his breath, and listen to the words Jon still spoke. It seemed to fill him back up, give him energy he shouldn't have. He'd shift from foot to foot. And when the last strains of pain faded away Martin set off again, eyes half-closed, listening to the statement. 

He hadn't been lying then, about how the statements helped. 

Melaine had seen Jon, exhausted, or injured, or coming out of his coma, choosing to read a statement. It reset him. That had spread. Though whether it was a placebo of Martin acting more like the focus of his adoration, or an actual effect of the child inside him was something she couldn't begin to speculate.   
  
"- **𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕. 𝙾𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞**."  Jon cleared his throat. "Statement ends."

"How many was that?" Martin asked, voice ragged even without him speaking. 

"What?" Jon glanced up, regretting it the moment he did. 

Martin shook even when he held still now, sweat beading, plastering his hair to his forehead. Each word he spoke was a physical effort. "How many journal entries was that? Four?"

"Five," Jon said. "Two were the same person."

Martin nodded. "What do you think so far?"

He couldn't speak, emotion clogging something in his chest. "Is now really the time for-"

"Yes. It's something else to think about," Martin cut across him, without the energy to summon anger, only a cold resignation. "What do you think? You always have supplements. As we can't do follow-ups, no matter that most of them are dead, so what do you think?"

Jon bit his lip, glancing back down at the ragged journal collective. "The first great war in over a century, the only one of its kind to date. Each statement has so many elements it's almost overwhelming. The corruption in the trenches themselves, eating away at those still alive, the hunt taking over the bodies lying in the mud, the flesh reveling in anything taken for food, and of course, the slaughter, casting it's siren song over anyone with the ears to hear it. I'm sure I could pick out more if I tried to." he took a deep breath. "And yet Marie seemed almost immune to it. I don't know why."

"Hazard a guess," Martin grunted, holding onto Melanie once more. 

"None seem to fit."

"Try," Melanie urged. Without Jon reading she watched what little color Martin had managed to cling to draining away, leaving his paler than the paper around them. 

Jon didn't catch on, speaking anyway. "I could have guessed her an avatar, if I knew which entity she could serve. All accounts speak to her cleanliness, presence of mind, gentle nature. She seemed to heal without burden to herself. She didn't have a master over any book, no Leitners. The only thing I could guess at solid evidence for something otherworldly would be her nurse's kit, but she hardly ever used it, simply carried it around with her."

Martin nodded numbly. 

"Go onto the next statement," Melanie ordered, a hand at Martin's cheek. Underneath the sheen of sweat, his skin burned fiery warm. He could have been running a fever. 

"But-"

"Now!" 

Jumping at the new volume Martin clung to Melanie's arm. Vaguely he tried to focus before his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped like a stone. 

"Martin!" Jon vaulted himself to his feet, sinking beside him. "Martin, can you hear me?"

Pushing him back Melanie crouched over Martin like a lioness. "Go back to your statements."

"I can't let him go on like this. He's ill."

"He's tired."

"All the more reason-"

"M' all right," Martin hummed. Eyes still closed he let himself be dragged back to consciousness. "Just got a little wobbly there."

Jon was shaking his head, aching to get closer, eyes stuck on Malanie's balled fists. "This isn't a 'bit wobbly'. Martin-"

"I'm all right," Martin said again. Hand on Melanie's shoulder, he got her to relax enough to get Jon close. 

He didn't waste the opportunity. Jon's hand hovered over Martin's before settling to a pat on his knee. "What can I do?"

"Go back to the statements."

"You can't expect me to ignore-"

"You have for the last six months Jon," Martin had no malice to his words, only exhausted, gentle, resignation. "It's okay. You aren't ignoring me. They're helping me."

Once more Jon was shaking his head, hair falling into his eyes, disguising how glazed they'd become, hiding the worry pressing against his chest like a physical weight. "How?"

"Watch," Melanie snapped. 

"What?"

"Martin, if you're all right, sit next to him, have Jon watch what the statements do for you."

"Yeah," Martin took the hand offered him, taking to his feet with a caution akin to walking across glass. "I need to sit awhile in any case."

Not daring to help Jon walked alongside the pair as Melanie got him settled in the nicest armchair the archive offered. 

Martin dropped his head back, openly cradling his swollen middle. There was no energy to concern himself with esthetics. The pain was the only real thing now, pain and, and the body pressing up against his palm. 

"Melanie," Martin spoke, throat torn, filling with something like copper. "Would you mind getting me a cup of tea?"

"A cup of tea?"

He waved away her incredulity. "For my throat."

Reluctantly she nodded. "You touch him-"

"And I won't have the hand to try it again?" Jon guessed. 

"Something like that," she stormed away to the small sink, only just out of earshot. 

Martin's jaw clenched. 

Double-checking they weren't being watched Jon turned back to him. "You're sure there's nothing else I can be doing?"

"I won't let you cut them out, Jon."

"I wouldn't-"

"Just read. Please."

Hating the helpless knot winding itself in his intestines Jon picked up the book, flipping quickly to the shortest entry he could find. Even as he read he shot quick glances upward. **"𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝, 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗. 𝚁𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗. 𝙰𝚐𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗.**

**𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚠, 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘. 𝙸 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎…"** Jon lifted his gaze from the words to find a vastly different sight. 

The pale, panting form of Martin had been replaced with a counterpart more easily recognized. His cheeks were a pale pink, the white knuckles grip on the arms relaxed. He'd pulled his legs up, tucking them underneath him. 

The statements  _ helped _ . And If Jon had to read until his voice gave out he would. Because seeing him okay was as necessary to him as breathing. 

**"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛** **.** "

Martin found himself dozing in the comfortable armchair. After a while, listening to the rambling journal entry of a man who never quite got to the point, a warm cup of tea was placed in his hands. He didn't drink, aching arms lacking the strength to lift it to his lips. 

Unmoving now he took the small respite to feel the next cramp for what it was. It wasn't really the white-hot lightning strike he'd built it up to be. 

Starting low in his back it circled his hips, pressing with a gentle throbbing weight, digging hot fingers into his sides. it clenched every muscle, undulating with a power not his own. He would've called it nature if-

" **𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍'𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗** ." Jon's words echoed his thought almost word for word, pulling Matin back to the present. 

" **𝙰𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜. 𝙽𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝. 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚃𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢.** **𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢. 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍. 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝙸'𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚛, 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜. 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜.** " Jon dropped the paper. "A rambling meaningless one. Still so laced with fear, even if he sounds happy the whole time. A puzzle. But that many fears in one place can drive you mad."

Martin smiled, patting Jon's knee. "I didn't mind it so much."

"How are you feeling?" Melanie asked. "I watched you tense up."

"Better," Martin said honestly. "Much better."

"Drink your tea," Jon tried for comfort. It was not a trait he attempted to emulate often, the words stiff. 

Martin appreciated it at least. The water wasn't as hot as he'd like, leaving the dregs still swirling in the liquid. But it was familiar and soothing all the same. 

He paused, a hand at his side.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Jon. Okay. This is so Martin-centric and I know I'm painting Jon in a bad light but I swear I love him. 
> 
> And please do pay attention to the statements. They do mean something ;)


	5. Chapter Five

"Martin?"

"I'm all right, Jon," he couldn't but smile at the concern audibly dripping from his voice. "They're just getting the last bit of bruising done before they make their premier."

Melanie hissed. "That sounds pleasant."

"I don't mind it," Martin's gaze never left Jon's face gnawing at his lip, brows knit together. 

In a moment of weakness, of needing to see what reaction he could give, pulled up the hem of his shirt. 

Underneath was a swell neither Jon nor Melanie was prepared for. Thin skin stretched so tightly it seemed ready to tear at any moment. Lightning scars wormed up his hips, ripping in a color so dark it was near magenta. His belly button stuck out, a dark line from chest and vanishing into his waistline, like an unfolded crease in a page. 

But that wasn't what drew their gaze, that wasn't what had Melanie recoiling and Jon leaning forward. It was the movement. The globe of his stretched middle was not a glass like marble. His stomach shifted and twisted as visible limbs pressed against their cramped barrier. 

Holding back a wince Martin kept his hands at his side, resisting the urge to push the tiny mark back. No, not a mark, a palm, the fingers too small to do more than poke at the taut flesh. 

Jon's fingers ghosted over it, eyes turned to saucers, mouth hung agape. 

"Looks a lot like a human hand, doesn't it?" Martin asked, hardly more than a breath.

Jon snapped backward, head turned, eyes closed, trying to bring back the walls he'd been comfortable to cower behind. "It does," he said stiffly. 

Martin rubbed slowly at the fingers, pushing them down, before bringing down his hem. "Jon?"

"What now?" his cold tone had returned, clinical and matter of fact. 

The ripping underneath Martin's rib cage shifted to the worst pain he'd felt the whole night, though admittedly a different kind. 

Melanie cleared her throat, holding a hand for the near-empty teacup. "Would you like any more?"

"No thank you," he whispered thickly. 

She took it from his numb fingers, brushing back damp bangs. "Be right back.

He nodded, watching Jon shuffle papers, something tight inside. 

"Next statement?" Jon asked, seemingly to call to the room at large. 

"Do what you want," Martin shifted to the edge of his seat, forcing himself back up. 

Melanie took the silent order, hand around his arms to resume their slow circle of the archives. 

Jon cleared his throat. "Statement of Albert Snow, written March 1916. **𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜.**

 **𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝙸'𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚢 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍**."

Face turned away Martin walked with Melanie and even though he kept his stubborn vow of silence he didn't bother stopping the tears freely dripping down his cheeks. 

And so the night pressed on, an ever-winding path across stone floors going nowhere toward a goal Melanie could not time for.

" **𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝, 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚞𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚢. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚢, 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜,** " Jon stuttered, the first time in living memory a statement had ever given him pause. "the page is cut off. It looks ripped on purpose. I have no idea how the ending could be accurate. There were no children in the trenches. So far as I can find the only woman for a hundred-mile radius was Marie Bunker. Perhaps, perhaps she could have given b- had a child there. That would explain Taitso, the general being so involved with a regimen that was not his. He could have been the f- the other parent." He stuttered over his words. "And it would explain the gift Mathias Grift was referring to."

Melanie glared over Martin's head, feeling how his shaking had increased under her hand, worsening with each word Jon refused to say. 

Jon caught her glare, shrinking underneath it, underneath the weight still atop his chest. 

"Next entry," Jon flipped the page. " **𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏** _-_ "

Melanie tuned him out, squeezing Martin's arm. 

Focus back on Martin, she found his shifted stance. 

His hips were canted to the side, jaw clenched. He didn't sway as he did before with every growing pain. Martin had frozen still as a statue. 

"Martin?"

He didn't answer, maybe he couldn't. 

She shifted, feeling the ache in her feet. Judging by how far Jon had gotten in that little book they must have been walking for hours on end. If she was aching for a seat she couldn't imagine what Martin was putting himself through. 

Finally, with a shart gasp he lifted a leg, moving a fraction of an inch. 

His gate was different, lower. Martin's stomach hung lower, dropped inches downward. 

"Martin?"

"I think something broke."

"Your waters broke?" Melanie hissed. 

"Shh," Martin glanced back to Jon. 

Chin in his hand he spoke, lost in the statement of a young man. " **𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚞𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎, 𝚒𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚝. 𝙸𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍. 𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚞𝚙 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚙. 𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍. 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚐. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎**."

Martin relaxed, turning back to her. "No, it's not my waters," he walked a few steps. "No. I think a bone, my hips."

Blood drained from her face. Less than a medical expert she still brushed a palm over his hips, taking in how wide they'd gotten. She would have called it widespread for a woman, let alone Martin. "Does it hurt?"

"Not as much as it probably should," he shifted, wincing. "Compared to the rest of this evening? No, not really."

"You should sit," Melanie tried to think. He couldn't have broken a bone. It wasn't possible. 

"I can't," Martin breathed out. "I can't now. For one I think it'd end up hurting more than standing and for another-" he stopped with a low groan, feet further apart. "It's lower, feels further down."

He looked up at her, a manic grin crossing his lips. 

"Martin-"

" **𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜** ," Jon stopped, catching her concern, if he hadn't heard a word. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Martin said quickly. "How much more of that book left?" 

Somehow the end of that ragged journal, and the end of his growing pain had become inextricably linked in his mind. 

"A few more statements, a couple of hours. If we need more reading material I'll-"

"You won't need it."

"What?"

Color slipped from his cheeks. 

Melanie caught it before Jon. "Oh shit."

Forcing himself to take deep breaths Martin put a hand on the table beside him, keeping himself on his feet. "You won't need it," he repeated. "My waters have broken."

Jon shoved his chair aside, on his feet. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he said numbly, "just in need of a new pair of trousers and-" Martin stopped dead, voice dying in his throat.

"Martin?"

It wasn't like last time, wasn't a gradual loss of balance before he slumped to the floor. 

Martin's scream was wrung from him without volition, echoing across the walls. It was the loudest sound he'd ever made, knocking the legs from below him as he crumbled, unable to manage the fire igniting underneath his skin. Tears seared tracks in his cheeks, his arms curled around his middle. 

"Martin!"

Melanie's anger forgotten, Jon's awkward comfort left behind him, they clung to him as he sobbed with abandon. 

"Martin," Jon took his hand, not caring as nails dug deep enough to draw blood around burn scars. "Martin. Talk to me."

He slumped back, eyes back in his head. Martin panted, sobs wrung from him, crashing over him like physical weights. "That hurt," he sobbed. "That hurt. I can't do that again."

"What happened?" Melanie asked. "I know you said it broke but-"

"It?"

Martin shook his head. "It's supposed to get worse after the waters are broken. I didn't know," he hiccuped, tears spilling thick and fast. "I can't do that again."

Jon gnawed at his cheek, squeezing Martin's hand. 

Eyes glazed with tears Martin looked up. "Jon. Jon, I need you to get them out."

"You were so certain," Melanie said. "Martin, you said you could do it without the, without the cutting."

"I can't," Martin shifted closer to Jon, head on his knee. He trembled. "I was wrong. Jon. Pl-"

"No," Jon took a steadying breath, holding fast to him, something in his chest falling into place. "You told me you didn't want that. I can't just let you give in."

Melanie smacked his arm. "You're really just going to let him suffer like this?"

"No," he repeated. Releasing Martin's hand he marched to the door. "I can't watch him like this. I… I'll be back."

"Jon?" Martin's whimper was too soft to follow him. Still, his hand reached for the comfort that wasn't there.

Melanie took it, anger sparking again. "That awful prick," she snarled. 

"Where'd he go?" Martin tried to lift his head, dropping back to the stone floor. 

"He'll be back," she tried to comfort, believing it to be a lie. "Let's get you to a chair, okay?"

His brows met. "I'll make it a mess."

"Not the biggest problem right now," Melanie rubbed his arm gently. "Are you okay to walk?"

"No," he said, getting to his feet anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get this show on the rooooad


	6. Chapter Six

Melanie had to help him the last little way, an arm around his back, keeping him upright if only with her own body. "You're okay," she squeezed his arm. "You're going to be okay."

Martin clung to her, head ducked, cutting off blood to her fingers. 

She ignored it. "Martin. Can you hear me?"

"It hurts," he whimpered. 

"I know, I know it hurts," she tried to comfort, shifting to take his hands in hers. "You just hold onto me, okay? You hold on and you squeeze as tight as you need."

Martin's nod was a short jerky motion. 

She thought frantically. Why hadn't she read more, done any research? Martin was in  _ labor _ and she'd hardly done casual google searches on the process. 

"I don't know what else to do. What comes next?"

His breathing picked up, tears dripping onto his already damp pant legs. "I can't think."

Melanie gnawed at her lip. "That's, it's fine. We have time. You just keep yourself calm."

"Where's Jon?"

Heart sinking Melanie forced herself to keep her voice level and kind. "He'll be right back. We don't need him. You're doing fine."

"I want Jon."

"Martin."

He hunched over, breaths coming his frantic huffs. "Not again."

Wincing either in sympathy or the hands grating the cartilage of her hand. Martin's scream wasn't the one from before. Guard up now the sound tore at his throat. 

Doing everything she could to block out the sound Melanie didn't catch the sound of Jon's returning footsteps until he'd burst into the room, something clutched under his arm. 

"Where the hell did you-"

He brushed past her, dropping to his knees beside Martin. 

Even in his half-aware state, Martin released her, reaching for Jon's hand.

To Melanie's utter surprise Jon took it without hesitation, dropping a small black bag beside him. "What is that?"

"Nurse Bunker's bag," Jon pulled out a small canister, a plastic mask connected at the bottom by a thin tube. "She invented a small gas and air machine in preparation for nuclear war-"

"Besides the point," Melanie asked, watching Martin's tense muscles spasm under his shirt. The pain hadn't ended, overlapping into a new contraction. He was stiff as stone, his screams giving way to ragged moaning. "Why do you have it?"

Jon pressed the mask into Martin's hand. "This will help. Take deep breaths."

Through pain, panic crept into his glazed eyes. 

"I promise," Jon stayed gentle. "it will not hurt you, knock you unconscious, or harm the infant. It's only a light mixture, made to keep you calm."

Martin couldn't think enough to take him at more than face value, pressing the plastic mask over his mouth and nose. Taking long deep breaths. 

In awe Melanie watched him unwind to a calm that unclenched the knot beneath her ribcage. 

Falling back into his chair Martin relaxed, head lolling into the crook of the armchair. 

Jon dropped his own head, forehead pressed against the corduroy arm. "Thank god," he mumbled.

"Why didn't you do that an hour ago?"

Jon didn't lift his head. "I was afraid. Anything that comes from the archive storage… it's never good."

Melanie's questions turned on a dime in a second. "Then why risk it?"

He didn't have the energy it seemed to summon a defense. "I couldn't listen to him in pain."

That was what really caught Melanie in her tirade. It wasn't the words, but the way they were said, not his crouched position but the way he still clung to Martin's free hand. 

"You do care," she whispered. 

Jon looked up through bloodshot eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," her arms were crossed once more, gaze firmly on Martin even as she spoke to Jon. "So what  _ are  _ the side effects of using that?"

His mouth opened, shut, opened again before a noncommittal grunt emerged, the only noise he could make. 

"What do you mean you don't know?" Melanie snarled. 

"I mean I don't know. All the information I've gathered about the items in that bag have been collected in the last few hours of reading."

"Will it hurt him?"

"I don't know."

"Will it hurt the baby?"

"I don't- Melanie."

She stood firm, glaring up into those darkly rimmed eyes. "Will it hurt them?"

"I don't think so."

Melanie was really growling now, jaw locked. "Jon."

"That's the best answer I can provide," he insisted. "So far as I can tell, neither he nor the infant will be harmed by the mixture. It is normal gas and air. Mary Bunker's first statement didn't talk extensively about the items in her bag, but she implies they weren't entirely normal. She and all patients treated by her so far as I can tell went on to live entirely normal lives. So yes, I think they will be alright."

"Then what-"

Martin's groan pulled both away. 

"Jon?"

"What is it, Martin?"

Melanie found herself struck once more by the care found in his old voice. 

"Can you, could you keep reading. Please?"

"Will it still help you?"

"It can't hurt," Martin dropped his head back, inhaling deeply, struggling to keep his scream down.

Jon found his hands almost instinctively pushing locks of hair from underneath the plastic mask. "All right, I will. In just a moment. With you lying down we should probably get ready for the end of it all."

Color, already lacking in Martin's pale face, drained further. But no protest came. 

"Right then," Melanie nodded. "What do we do?"

Martin tried to lift the mask from his face but Jon was already talking. "We need to make a space near the sink for water, either a chair or recliner. He can't lie down. That will just slow everything down. I need all the towels in the building."

"What? Why?" Melanie sputtered, shock getting the better of her. 

"Because with his waters broken the layer around the child has broken and the head is descending into the birth canal," he snapped at her. "Melanie. Towels. We don't have time."

Pushing annoyance aside Melanie nodded and ran to collect supplies. 

Jon marched to find a better-suited chair when there was a tug, almost physically, behind his navel, drawing him back. 

Blindly Martin had begun reaching for a hand that was no longer there, knuckles flexing on the arm of his chair. 

Hating how much effort was needed to do so Jon wrapped his hands around Martin's.

He relaxed instantly. Lifting the mask half an inch his smile could be seen under the thick plastic. "You did research. You knew all that stuff."

Jon glared at his knee. "I didn't do any research, Martin. Not about this. It's just something I  _ know _ ."

Too tired to be disappointed Martin nodded. 

"It's a good thing though." 

His face screwed up with pain. 

Jon brought the mask back to Martin's face, speaking without thought. "Slow deep breaths Martin. It will be all right."

After a long moment, Martin dropped back, chest heaving. But he hadn't screamed. 

"What else do you know?"

"Just keep the mask-"

"Jon."

He was quiet, sinking back into his seat, letting Martin squeeze his knuckles. 

"What else do you know?"

Jon let the words flow, not passing his mind before they emerged. Some other source was speaking through him, as terrifying as it was, Jon ignored all fear. These were things he needed to know to keep Martin safe. 

"You aren't dialating, like a mother would in labor. There's no uterus, no uterine muscles. While the sensation is familiar it is the lining of the," he paused, unable to find the right word. "The infant is being held in something I can't understand, I can't  _ know _ properly."

"Try."

The hope in his voice was unmistakable. After months of trying and failing to find any useful information, Martin was floundering. He knew the basics, knew enough to get him this far, but that wasn't going to be enough. 

Jon nodded, catching the tone. "It's like a balloon, a thickly lined balloon, attached on the inside. It wasn't there before. It grew before the infant, made room just under your small intestine. As they grew and developed, the passage to them did as well, from the inside out."

Martin nodded once. "Like being carved away from the inside," he whispered, only just able to be heard. 

"I'm so sorry."

"It isn't your fault."

"You keep insisting it is."

"I-" Martin stopped. 

Was this Jon admitting…

"Back," Melanie closed the door behind her, a roll of paper towels from the woman's bathroom under her arm and actual cloth towels under the other. "I'll have you know the night staff think I'm insane."

"Better that, than the alternative," Jon directed her to place them by the sink. 

She pressed her lips tighter together. 

"Can you help me pull his chair to the sink? I want to be as close as possible to the water."

Growing alarmed by how eerily calm the man had become Melanie nodded. "You've finally accepted all this then?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Is that not something you can just pry out of him?"

Jon's teutonic brow furrowed once more. "Asking someone what they believe is different than asking for facts. And besides," he snapped, cutting off her protest. "I wouldn't do that, not to him."

Sated for the moment Melanie stood at Martin's side, brushing his arm gently.

His eyes open, if only a sliver, and he made a motion that might have been a smile under the warped plastic. 

"Feeling all right?"

His nod was slow, hardly more than a jerk. She might have not noticed the motion had she not been looking for it. 

"Melanie and I are going to try and move the chair."

He was shaking his head before he'd found his words. Martin tried to sit up, lifting the mask. "I can walk. It's all right."

Jon was less sure. 

"It's only a few feet. It'll be faster this way."

And after a moment, to Melanie's shock and severe disapproval, he helped Martin to his feet. 

Free hand gripping the canister of gas Martin leaned against him. 

But as Melanie dragged the incredibly heavy armchair across the carpet, snagging stray threads before leaving it by the sink. Taking Martin's other arm she could hear the soft stream of encouragement. 

"You're all right. Almost there. You're doing lovely."

She didn't think she'd ever heard Jon speak so gently. 

What made the words so shocking wasn't Jon's complete abandonment of snobby downward glares and dismissive smiles, but that Martin soaked up every syllable. Just being held against the archivist's shoulder had him calmer than the still clutched can of gas and air. 

Martin was in love with him. 

And really, Melanie thought wildly, that was the most terrifying realization of the night.    
  



	7. Chapter Seven

Reaching the edge of the room Martin lowered himself into the chair, not leaning back. He whimpered, fingers white on the arms of his aid. "Jon-"

"Deep breaths," Jon knelt before him, holding the thin plastic mask up. "Deep breaths, just listen."

"Can you read more?" Martin's plea was a strangled one. 

"Just another moment."

Melanie shoved him aside. "Go get your damned papers," she hissed to him. 

Martin hardly marked the change of hands, squeezing to Melanie for dear life. 

When he finally crumpled against the chair back again his thighs, still hidden under damp trousers, had wetted again. 

But this was not the clear fluid she knew. This was dark, a scarlet turned silvery black underneath the underground lights. 

Melanie couldn't find her voice. 

"What is it?" Jon returned, a small pile tucked under his arm. 

She pointed numbly. 

"Nothing to be afraid of," he said instantly. 

"How do you-?"

"I just do," he placed a stool beside the plush armchair. 

"Should we do anything?"

The shake of Jon's head was vehimate. "Let him rest. He's going to need it."

Lips thin once more she sniffed. "Fine. What now?"

"Now we wait." It was Martin's voice and not Jon who answered. He'd drawn back, head lolled on the edge of the headrest, one leg propped on the foot of the chair, a great force drawing apart his thighs. "And judging by how this is going it won't be for much longer."

Picking at the corner of his war journal Jon tried to find the right words. 

Through the open sliver of his eyes, Martin smiled weakly. "You can keep reading Jon. You're almost to the end of if anyway."

Jon shook his head. "I want to actually be present for you."

The words touched Martin more than he seemed able to express. But still, the inexorable link between his labor and the war journal was unable to be severed in his mind. "You are here," he smiled. "Please keep going."

Jon flipped absently through the book. He felt like a dowsing rod, fingers buzzing along each page. He could sense which statements were entirely useless to him. Fingers burning he froze on one very near the end. It seemed to have been glued in. " **𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎 𝙱𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚛** ," he eased into it. 

"There it is," Martin hummed. His head had fallen to his shoulder. In what little time he'd been given to relax, he could feel his energy waning. 

Melanie took her own seat, fingers white on the towel in her lap. There was something in the air. She could feel it, like teetering on the edge of a cliff. Closing her eyes she took a deep breath and listened to Jon's recording. 

" **𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝟷𝟿𝟺𝟻 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜…**

 **𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚜**."

Martin listened, the hand not holding up his gas and air cradling his middle. The soft movements from the child beneath had slowed. the child was so low down now it was a miracle they could still summon the energy to kick at him. But he met each movement with his palm, so eager to feel them, to hold them, that the pain had become a low buzz. 

"How are you feeling?" Melanie couldn't help but whisper to him. 

"Better," he smiled, voice muffled past the plastic mask. 

"You look better."

His eyes shut as Melanie watched. It was a physical ripple across his skin as his thighs shifted, all the momentum pushing the child ever lower. 

She took his free hand.

He could only manage the weakest squeeze. 

Martin didn't have much longer. 

Gnawing at her lip Melanie brushed back his sweat-dampened hair. "Just hold on," she whispered. "You're so close."

His smile hardly lifted at the corners. 

" **𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚐 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙾𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜. 𝙸'𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎** _**,** " _ Jon pressed on, deaf to their conversation _. "_ **𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚐, 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝙸 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝.**

" **𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗.**

**"𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝, 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎'𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚛.  
**

**𝙼𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎.**

**𝙸𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚑𝚜. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎, 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚐.**

**𝙼𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚢.**

**𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚐, 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚑𝚜. 𝙿𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝙱𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚝.** _"_

Martin listened in curious fascination. "One must be scared of it," he repeated numbly. 

Brows furrowed Melanie waited for him to elaborate. 

He didn't, simply tracing patterns along his stomach. 

" **𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢**." 

Stuttering over his words, Jon paused, rubbing at his forehead. 

"Jon?" 

Taking a shaking breath Jon pressed on. " **𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚗** _."_

Martin pushed himself up on one elbow, eyes wide. 

" **𝚄𝚙 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚍𝚍 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜.**

" **𝙸 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗, 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝙰𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝙼𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘. 𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎**.

**𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜. 𝙰𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚜. 𝙸'𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚜.**

**𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚢. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐.**

**"𝙽𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎," 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎, 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎. "𝙽𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝?"**

**𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍.**

**𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜. "𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜," 𝙸'𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗, 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍.**   
  
**𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙸'𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜.**

**𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜.**

**𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.**

**"𝙽𝚘," 𝙸 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢. "𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚜."**

**𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜. 𝚆𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚕𝚢.**

**𝙱𝚞𝚝, 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐... 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐.**

**𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚙𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚂𝚘, 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.**

**𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑.**

**𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖.**

**𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚎. 𝙱𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙸 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝, 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜.**

**𝙸𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝.** "


	8. Chapter Eight

Martin, gas canister, nearly forgotten, was sitting at the edge of his seat, breath caught in his throat. 

Melanie herself had dropped her jaw open.

Still numb to any reaction, caught in the statement, Jon pressed onward. 

" **𝙸 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚜, 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚜𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢.** ****

**"𝙽𝚘, 𝚖𝚊'𝚊𝚖," 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢. "𝙸 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚖. 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗, 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚊'𝚊𝚖," 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎.**

**𝚂𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.**

**𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍. "𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝙽𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝙱," 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎. "𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚣𝚣𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸, 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕."**

**"𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚃𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚘," 𝙸 𝚐𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖.**

**𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢. "𝙽𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚜𝚎𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸'𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚢.**

**𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝚆𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚗, 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎."**

**𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.**

**𝙸 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎.**

**"𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝."**

**𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚌𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.**

**𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚜, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍.**

**𝙰𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝𝚜 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.**

**𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠, 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝, 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍.**

**𝚄𝚙 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚍'𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐?**

**𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎.**

**𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝙸 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚎𝚢𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑.**

**𝙰𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝙼𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚝, 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢.**

**𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙰𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗.**

**"𝙽𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝙱," 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚖.**

**𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐. "𝚄𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎-𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸'𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗," 𝙸 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍.**

**"𝙽𝚘," 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢. 𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍. "𝙽𝚘 𝙽𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝙱, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚜."**

**𝙼𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚍. 𝙳𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚞𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎.**

**"𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜. 𝙰𝚗𝚍," 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛. "𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗. 𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞."**

**𝙸 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢, 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚕𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚋𝚊𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝙸 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙰𝚍𝚘𝚖.**

**𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎. 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍, 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚠𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.** "

Martin turned away, trying to drown out the story of another going through just what he was. Taking a long deep breath from the can of gas, his own position imitated the one of nearly a century before.

Jumping to action Melanie rocked forward, taking his free hand. Martin dug his nails into her palm, 

"Any pressure yet?" she asked, remembered wildly a scene from a movie where a nurse had asked just the same. 

He shook his head, dropping into the armchair. He turned on his side, tears gathering in his eyes. What help the gas and air was giving wasn't enough anymore. There was hardly a minute between contractions and still, there was no urge to push. 

Distantly, as if speaking from a far distant planet Jon told the story of another, through the lense of a woman who had the utmost concern and care. 

It was quickly becoming more than he could handle. Martin needed more than the ineptitude of Melanie and the emotional distance of Jon. 

Unable to keep the low groan in Martin's spine arched, 

"Martin?" Melanie gripped his hand tighter. 

"I can't," he gasped. "I can't. It's too much."

"Jon," Melanie snapped. 

He hardly looked up. Jon was too far into the statement to pull himself out. 

"Jon," Melanie placed a hand over the page, speaking sharply. "Listen to me."

" **-𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝** **.** " Jon wrenched himself from the statement. It almost looked painful. 

Malanie had no time for sympathy. "Martin needs you. Now."

"Is he pushing?"

"Not yet," Melanie pulled the book from his hand. 

Actually wincing when the page was closed she pointed him firmly around. 

When Jon lifted his gaze his heart dropped to his toes. He thought the statements were helping him. He'd watched color flushing Martin's cheeks from only his words. It seemed even that was too much to be healed by whatever The Eye could aid anymore. 

Head pitching from side to side Martin gasped for air, the can of gas dropped to his side, nails dug into the arms of the chair. 

"Martin," Jon lunged forward, both hands around his arms. He reached absently for the can. 

Shaking his head Martin pushed away the plastic mask as it was held up. "It's not helping anymore," his sob came up dry. "Jon, I can't anymore. I can't. It's too much."

Jon put his hand underneath Martin's chin. "Just a little longer," he promised.

Martin leaned into the touch, shaking badly. "It hurts."

"I know," Jon leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Martin's own. "I can't even imagine what you're going through now. But I know you can get through it."

Smiling limply Martin brought his glazed eyes upward. "Is that something you know or something you  _ know _ ?"

"Both," Jon couldn't help himself. He kissed Martin's forehead, linking their fingers together. "You're stronger than you think. Just hold on a little longer."

Whimpering again Martin gripped the edge of the chair. 

"How can I help?" Jon brushed a thumb over his hand. "What can I do? Do you want to keep the gas and air?"

"I should," Martin hummed, easing back into his seat. 

Jon kept their forehead pressed together, needing the contact almost as much as Martin did. "Should I keep reading?"

"Please?"

With another quick kiss, Jon lowered himself back to his own seat. Unable to tear his own hand away Jon held to Martin's hand. With the other he clumsily reached for the journal. Little control over the book he dropped it and a loose-leaf page tumbled out, sliding along the floor. Jon caught it with his toe, pulling it back toward him. 

"This looks to be misfiled. It's a different paper from the others."

"Read it anyway," Martin planted his feet at the base of the chair, hissing through his teeth. "Just read something."

Nerves alight Jon did as he was told, straightening out the paper on his knee. " **𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝙴𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚑 𝟷𝟿𝟽𝟼. 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚜…** "

Melanie tried to reach the other's eyes. The son. They'd had a boy. With so little information about the child after they'd been born in the trenches this was the clencher. This statement could be the proof Jon needed.

" **𝙼𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚜. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕. 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚎. 𝙶𝚘𝚍, 𝙸 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚎** **.** "

Jon took a pause, his insides fluttering. He could sense the concern off this page so palpably. This page he held was the deciding factor. In moments he would know if Martin would be okay, if the child (their child?) was going to be okay. Perhaps the concern was not those he read for, but his own echoed tenfold behind the words. 

_ " _ **𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚛. 𝙰𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍, 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗.** _ " _


	9. Chapter 9

_ " _ **𝙼𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.**

**𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗**. **𝙰𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚜. 𝙰𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛, 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.**

 **𝚅𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍**. _"_

Martin hung to every word. 

More intrigued by him than the words, Melanie watched him. Evry encroaching contraction rippled around his skin, and bit by bit, pushed his thighs further outward. After a moment either one was pressed into the arms of the chair. 

What little comfort the story gave, he was nearing the end. 

Melanie dug her own nails into the towel she held. 

_ " _ **𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑, 𝚋𝚎𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛. 𝙼𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚢. 𝙾𝚛 𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕. 𝚃𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢.**   


**𝙾𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚗𝚝𝚑 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗.**

**𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗.**

**𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎. "𝚂𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 𝙸𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝙸. 𝚆𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞** _." _

**𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜. 𝙸 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚞𝚙 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚢, 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍.**

**𝙸 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘… 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜** _."  _

Martin, who had been listening with the utmost patience, and silence he could have ever mustered, sat up slowly. He had no color left, his face shifted the gentlest of greens. 

Jon dropped the paper from trembling fingers, at an utter loss for words. He'd begun the statements with such a firm disbelief, trying to prove to himself it was all poppycock and nonsense. When he was faced with the reality of it all he had tried to categorize it, placing each instance into a neat category. He hated war stories, not because of the clear violence and terror of it all but because it was harder to know which of the fears each story fit. 

And so, as he had before, Jon tried to make sense of it. 

"Taitso must have been an avatar," he said, repeating knowledge he had already collected, placing it all in a neat line. "If, if he and Mathias Grift were really capable of creating a child despite clear biological barriers, which is not to say Mathias Grift was not biologically… different." he paused before he could say 'abnormal'. 

"No tests had ever been done on him, though his unnamed son did provide us with his own x-rays. While there was no proper DNA testing in his days. And I'm sure Mr Grift Jr has passed on by now." He flipped through the few pictures that'd been tucked into the back of the book. "From my little knowledge on the skeletal system he looks normal. He was an average human being."

"Jon," Martin felt his breath vanish, though for entirely different reasons than he'd had before.

In a flash of clarity, Jon clenched his fingers at the edge of the paper, nearly crumpling it in his fist. "An average human being…" Jon repeated breathlessly. 

Melanie looked between them, something welling in her chest. 

Darting forward, taking Martin's hand, Jon's face lit with a kind of strained frantic hope. 

"Is it possible?" Martin asked, begging him to know.    
"The child was… was conceived on a battlefield. Mathias told the nurse it wasn't sex. Still, he said it was different. Just as you've said."

Martin shook his head, pain wrangling all conscious thought. "But, we, we're not at war."

"Aren't we?" Jon gestured weakly around the archives. "There are only a handful of us trying to keep the fears from breaking through. I'd come over after running into yet another monster."

"Wait," Melanie cut in, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're saying the reason there is a kid in the first place is everyone around here got so damn miserable and scared that you two screwing around and being happy for a minute was enough to what, choke out the fear?"

"Succinctly put," Jon offered a weak shrug. "In the spaces between all the fear these entities have given us we cling to the things, the people, that we love."

Martin had himself up on one elbow. "Jon? Do you- are you-?"

"No time for that," Melanie cut in, grabbing another towel. "You're bleeding."

"How badly?" Jn didn't pull his hand away, though he leaned back to see it all. 

"Bad."

Nails dug into Jon's hand Martin's breath picked up. "That's not all."

"Time to push?"

He couldn't summon a proper answer. Sinking in his chair Martin threw his head back. There was no technique, no thought at all. This was instinct, an instinct his body had not been born with, but there all the same.  
  
"Jon," Melanie froze, shock wringing out the determination she'd been running on. 

"Someone's got to catch the baby, the other focus on Martin."

"If you know what you're doing then get to it," Melanie grabbed Jon's wrist, pushing him toward the end of the chair. 

Frantic for only a moment Jon knelt at Martin's feet, gnawing at his bottom lip. 

"Jon!" Melanie's cry was desperate. 

Dropping against the chair Martin sobbed, shoulders wracked in pain. Numbly he reached for something, anything to cling to. Melanie took the searching fingers without hesitation. Tears spilled down his cheeks, leaving salted tracks. 

"I, all right," Jon brushed his hand through his hair, gathering himself. "Melanie. I want you to keep the gas and air on him between every push. Deep breaths."

She nodded, taking the little canister firmly in hand. 

"Martin," Jon's voice dropped to one far gentler. "Martin, can you hear me?"

A weak nod was all the answer he could manage. 

"Martin, I need you to listen to me very carefully. On every push I will count to ten. I need you to push with all your might. Can you do that for me?"  
  
Another nod, eyes only just held open enough to see a sliver of white. 

"Is this position okay for you?"

A shrug. 

"We'll make it work."

Martin opened his mouth to answer a tortured groan, the only thing to escape. 

Feeling the shift in muscles below his hand Jon patted Martin's knee awkwardly. "Push as hard as you can," Jon ordered unsteadily. "One… two…"

Chin to his chest Martin gave into the overwhelming pressure. His attempt to keep from screaming was all for naught. Deep underneath his skin, in a place he'd nearly forgotten amidst the chorus of agony, the fractured bones in his hips splintered in lighting patterns. 

"Martin!" Melanie gripped his arm. 

Back at his side Jon took his other hand. "Martin. Stop."

The cresting pain ebbed away, leaving him trembling and crying. "I broke something," he sobbed. "I've already messed up. Jon, I can't do this." 

"You're doing fine," Jon promised, kissing his forehead. 

"I can't," the word stretched to several syllables by a helpless sob. "I can't anymore. Get them out."

Holding tight to his hand Jon stumbled, if only metaphorically. "The child is too low for that now."

"No," Martin whimpered, shaking his head. 

"There are very few options now," Jon spoke quickly, fighting against the clock, feeling the newest contraction underneath his fingers. "We could try and find a new position, one that does not… harm you any further."

"Or?" Melanie asked. 

"Or I could look through the nurse's bag to search for other options. I don't if there would be anything but-"

"No," Martin tried to heave himself higher in the chair, teeth grit. "We can't trust it won't hurt the baby." He could only move a fraction of an inch before sinking back, whimpering. 

Melanie could feel panic and anger, at the universe more than anything. "Martin, you've broken bones. You can't-"

"I don't have a choice," Martin's will crested over his own wild fears. Digging nails into the arms of his chair he closed his eyes, bearing down once more. 

"Martin!" Jon moved back to his seat, eyes wide as dinner plates. He had to help. He had to do something. 

But he didn't. 

Head thrown back, Martin locked his jaw, feet planted. With a ragged breath, he curled forward and used every last ounce of his vanishing strength to bare down. 

Jon didn't have the time to be alarmed. Pushing Martin's thighs further apart, Jon gnawed his own lip. 

Melanie for her part could feel her own emotions overshadowed by anger. Still, she clung to the desperately keening Martin, fury making the griding knuckles of her hand numb. 

Reaching the end of what could have been an hour-long contraction Martin sagged, freehand at his middle. "I, I felt," he gasped for air. "Felt something-"

"I saw the head," Jon's voice, hardly audible over Martin's own wheezing gave them all pause. 

"What?" Melanie croaked. 

"I saw the top of the head," Jon scrambled to take Martin's hand. "Just for a moment. They've got so much hair."

Martin could feel the tears surging up now, the wash of relief more effective than any pain killer. "Must take after you then. I was bald until I was nearly two."

Breaking into the smallest of smiles Jon pressed another comforting kiss to Martin's forehead. 

Without time to react Martin's face screwed up in pain. 

And it began again.    
  



	10. Chapter Ten

No one kept time anymore. 

Jon didn't read. Melanie didn't count out the contractions. Martin was nearly lost, simply lying in his chair. 

Dozens of contractions came and went. 

Despite his feelings of utter uselessness Jon kept up his commentary of encouragement. He could not have spoken them for as much as Martin heard them. 

"S' burning," Martin's rattling voice was almost able to be missed had Melanie's ear not been inches away. 

"What?"

Shoulders drawing up, as if trying to escape his own agony-ridden body Martin began to pant, light and fast. "It's burning."

"Jon!" Melanie turned to him in terror. 

"Don't stop," Jon insisted. "Martin. Listen to me. Don't stop now."

"What, what is it? Why's it hurt like that?" Martin's slurred babbling was only hardly understood. 

Jon's fingers, icy on his leg, squeezed. "The head is crowning. Your skin is stretching. Nothing to worry about. Just keep going."

"I c-can't." 

Martin had run out of strength, collapsed into the now blood-soaked arms chair, his fingers had no power to grip the arms. He had been wrung dry of all will power. 

With a pale panic, Jon gripped his hand. "Martin!"

He had only enough life left to shake his head. 

"No," Jon could hear his heart in his ear like a bass drum. He would not lose Martin. He couldn't. 

Melanie looked between them, still clung to Martin, feeling the warmth draining from his skin. "Jon. Do something."

hating every word from his mouth Jon forced himself to do what he had to. Dragging himself forward, forehead pressed against Martin's he fought back tears. "Martin. Can you hear me?"

The exhale was light, an imitation of acknowledgment. 

"Martin… **y̷̺͎̋͌͜͜** **oṳ̸̡̝͎͑͘͜͝ hav̸̛̘̰̫͑e to p̷̢̞̰̽͠͝us̴̮̪̼̠͛ͅͅh** ," he whispered. The words, laced with every ounce of will, drug Martin up from the deep water he'd been drowning in. 

Lids open Martin, bent forward, using energy he no longer had. 

Melanie looked between them, face blank. "Jon. What did you- what did you say to him?"

"Doesn't matter now," Jon clambered back atop his small stool, hand between Martin's thighs.

Lost to rational thought Martin grit his teeth and with the last-ditch effort, bored down. 

Melanie gripped his hand, her own fingers going a pale purple as they were squeezed. 

Voice ragged, throat ripped, Martin screamed, the sound guttural, animalistic. He was not built for his task. It was clear now. How Mathias had managed this nearly a centru before was impossible to imagine. Feet planted on the edge of the chair Martin could feel- simultaneously the only real thing, and a sensation from miles away- the pressure he'd been feeling to redouble its efforts. 

Chin on his chest he pushed harder. The burning, the agony of his reality hit a peak. The world started fading in and out. Pain was the only thing that existed. 

Everything hit an apex. Tears spilled down his cheeks. every muscle focused their efforts downward. 

He was going to fall apart, rip in half, crumble to dust. 

Then it was over. 

Collapsing in a heap Martin trembled. 

"Martin?" Melanie's whisper was lightyears away, at the end of a tunnel he didn't want to find the end of. 

Even lifting his lids was too much. 

Each irregular thud of his heart had his body throbbing down to its atoms. 

Head turned away he felt himself drifting away, falling into a ret he'd been denied for so long. 

Then he heard the weak cry. 

Small, quiet, still on the end of that tunnel, Martin listened, trying to find the source of the cry.

"Martin." A far more welcome voice spoke over it. "Come back to me, love." Jon's breath was his ear. 

And suddenly he wasn't at the other end of that tunnel. He was beside him. 

Martin couldn't lift his head, couldn't do more than watch. 

Sitting on the stool, dragged to the side of the armchair, Jon leaned close, something blurry in his arms. 

Forcing his inconsistent consciousness forward Martin blinked the blur into focus. 

It was tiny, noisy. And he felt as drawn to it as a moth to a flame. 

"Is that…?" Martin whispered. His arm had moved, by some miracle, though he hadn't asked it to. Trembling fingers brushed the tiny face. 

Pinched and red and dirty, the minuscule newborn wriggled, furious about their entrance to the world. 

"Meet our daughter," Jon pressed his forehead against Martin's once more. 

The place where skin met skin was sweaty, dirty, and most likely touched by blood. 

Neither cared. 

"Can I hold her?" Martin asked. 

"Of course."

"Jon," Melanie warned quietly. 

Neither listened. 

They were in their own world. Nothing mattered but the tiny infant between them. 

Wrapped haphazardly into a towel the baby squalled loudly. She had only the faintest wisps of hair. With fists no larger than rosebuds pressed up to her cheek, the force of her cry shook her entire frame. Martin thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. 

With a strength he shouldn't have, he brought them to the crook of his neck, kissing the tiny face, humming a lullaby he couldn't quite remember the words to. 

Still sobbing the flailing baby quieted a fraction, reacting to the warmth of his skin. 

"Martin?"

"She's perfect," Martin said, smiling wanly. 

"Martin," Jon laid a hand over his. 

All the joy he'd had only moments before was draining from him. "Martin… we have to talk about-"

"I know," Martin whispered. He pressed his lips tighter together, feeling his own tears spilling hot and thick. "I just want a few minutes. Please?"

"You know there's no time."

Melanie looked between them, at a loss. "What are you talking about 'a few minutes'? What's going on?"

Jon stood on unsteady legs. "Martin came to me, just over a month ago. He'd been having nightmares about, about the Eye. He convinced me that, should the child be fully human, we couldn't let the fears get to them."

"But," Melanie's thoughts' whirred, gaze landing on Martin's distraught face. "But, you heard in the statement. The child was immune to the fear they came from. Mathias' kid, his dad was an avatar of the slaughter but they were always gentle."

Lifting dark ringed eyes, Martin could feel the faintest glimmer of hope. "Jon?"

Shifting from foot to foot Jon gnawed at his cheek. "I don't know," he admitted finally. "Is it worth the risk?"

Martin's glimmer of hope flickered and died. "No. It's not."

Still struggling to wrap her mind around it Melanie turned desperately to Martin. "You can't be serious. Martin-"

He didn't answer, face screwing in renewed pain. "Jon."

Rounding the edge of the couch Jon knelt by Martin's bare legs, examining him. "The bleeding has stopped," he said. There was no relief in that tone, only trepidation. 

"What does that mean?" Melanie thought quickly over what she had read. "Is it some kind of after birth?"

Jon shook his head. "I don't know. The eye doesn't, it doesn't understand what happened to Martin because the child was conceived under whatever the opposite, or the lack of the fears is. The child and its birth are the antitheses of the eye."

"Wouldn't that mean they're immune to it?" Melanie insisted. 

"I don't know," Jon scowled. It was a phrase he used often as of late and its frequent use did not ease its nature. 

Martin tried to keep himself relaxed. He'd dropped his legs, lying down in the slanted chair. Needing to lift his knees pulled at every tired muscle. 

"For, for now, we'll just clean up. Then we'll, um," Jon was losing steam. "We'll find a safe place for the child."

Martin nodded weakly, pressing his cheek against his daughter's head. 

Sinking into the nearest chair Melanie dropped her forehead into her head, eyes flicking back and forth, reading something she couldn't quite see. When she lifted her head there was a desperation in her voice she couldn't quite understand. "Martin. You can't be okay with this."

Martin didn't speak. 

For a long moment Melanie thought she was ignoring him. 

But when she opened her mouth to repeat he stopped her. 

"Of course I'm not," he said finally. 

"Then why-?"

"I love her," Martin said simply. "I've loved her since I felt her moving for the first time. No matter what I was told, what faint ideas I had that she could be a monster, I loved her. And loving her this much means… it means I know I can't have her. The life we lead here is dangerous. I can't have her be a part of that." 

The tears dripping down his cheeks were slow, almost invisible in the dim light. 

Melanie moved closer. If she was conflicted… what pain was Martin feeling?

He was quiet, pressing gentle kisses into his daughter's forehead, on her cheeks. Martin placed a finger between her chubby ones, the tiniest hand wrapping around it. He brought that to his lips too, trying to impart all the love he could manage onto the little girl. 

Melanie couldn't stand it. The simmering rage underneath her ribcage went nowhere. She was always angry now, and who wouldn't be, trapped in the archives where monsters and nightmares tracked you. But this was a different rage. This was a sorrowful rage. Even if she had only known the little girl a few moments, she loved it. 

And if she loved them…

Martin's tears fell thicker with every passing moment. He tried to blink them away, drink in every line of his daughter's face. He had only moments to memorize it, before it was taken forever. 

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.  
  
"Me too."

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the last few weeks of Magnus content, I will finally post my self-indulgent nonsense fic!
> 
> Any and all comments will be replied to, whether criticism, key smashes, or your own brand of nonsense. 
> 
> Thank you just for reading!


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